The Picket

Virgil C. Moon

Description

The thoughts, hopes and reality of a private in the American Civil War are brought to life in the book. The author, a Civil War re-enactor, has through his experiences gained insight into images and emotions of a soldier in the conflict.. With accurate details of the soldiers equipment, camp life and battlefield action, the reader travels with the soldier as the war unfolds around him. Dealing with and understanding the reality of life and death are struggles of the mind that a private must face quietly and alone. Realistic images added with humor and mystical themes, the novel becomes an entertaining journey into the past.

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Fantasy historique
• Médiéval-Fantastique
• Historical
• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 18 mars 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781478787693
• Langue: English

Extrait

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

The Picket
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2016 Virgil C. Moon, III
v5.0

Cover Photo © 2016 thinkstockphotos.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.
http://www.outskirtspress.com

ISBN: 978-1-4787-8769-3

Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
1
The voice calling “Private Moon, picket duty!” interrupted my dreaming. Sergeant Smith’s harsh voice shook my mind awake. Despite his gruff voice and rough exterior, Sergeant Smith was a good man who cared for all of his men. His bearded face was an all too familiar sight in an existence I wish I had never known. What we endured seemed at times to have been my entire life. A warm pillowed bed, the soft feel of a woman’s voice, and the aroma of freshly baked pie were all parts of a former life.
The pleasure of viewing all of these images in my mind slowed me from responding to the Sergeant’s order. While slipping from under my blanket, I muttered, “Coming, Sergeant.” My nose and toes were the first to feel the chill of the night air. Quickly finding my boots in the straw, I hurried to put them on. They were cool, too.
I had worn my clothes to bed knowing I would have to rise later to attend to my post. After pulling up my trousers and slipping my suspender straps back over my shirt, I gathered my gear and ducked out of the mild warmth of the tent and headed to the weapons stack. The campfire, although almost all coals, cast a yellow glow that was reflected in the wooden stocks of the rifles. I removed my jacket from the top of the rifle stack where it had been covering the open ends of the barrels to prevent any nighttime moisture from forming inside the weapons.
There was little moisture in the air, for which I was thankful. My coat was dry and felt comfortable as I buttoned up the front. I had carried my cartridge box, waist belt, canteen, and haversack with me from the tent. Hurriedly, I placed them on the topside of my coat in their proper arrangement. Dressed, with all my equipment ready and rifle in hand, I headed to my post.
A new path had been formed through the woods over the last several days, trodden down by private after private reporting to do his time as picket. The path made it easy to find the position. A lantern would have assured a walk without stumbling, but light in the darkness focuses the eyes of the enemy upon you. Although my eyes had grown accustomed to moving in the dark, I still almost fell over when my right boot heel hung up on an unnoticed tree root. The picket position was along the side of a road that was about one hundred yards from our company street.
The night sky was clear except for a white, slivered moon, which seemed to light the treetops with a silver shimmer. I looked ahead of me to where the path neared the end of the woods and disappeared into the dirt road. The dark shadow of a picket appeared ahead. He looked like a lead soldier, stiff and frozen. As I approached, he raised his rifle and aimed it at me, and two questions flashed through my mind. How many Springfields or other rifles had been aimed at me in this lifetime? Did I really want to know the answer?
“It’s all right, David. It’s me.” I said, stopping in the trail. I walked slowly onward, and he lowered the weapon to his side, and became a statue. When I was squarely in front of him, he relaxed from his stiff position. David muttered that he was ready for some sleep, turned, and headed for the path back to camp. The path, the night, and David became one as he disappeared from the picket’s post.
Standing on the side of the road, I looked to my right into the darkness where the road headed northward. It was equally dark to my left, front and back, but north was the direction of my concern. However, the slightest noise from any direction would be detected by my excited senses. They seemed to realize the important role that they now played. Nature has its own sounds at night, and so does man. My hearing had learned the difference between them. A picket’s task is not just to watch, but to listen. As many times as I had performed this duty, it had not become any more comfortable to me.
My friend, Richard, had not returned from this late night duty just two nights ago. What had become of him, I did not know. I hoped he was alive. Richard and I had come gladly into this new life together. Neither of us had been away from our homes any further than to visit relatives or friends in nearby counties. The war was to be an exciting adventure for us. Captain Hollaway had smiled when we told him what great deeds we would do under his command. Since that day, we had engaged in many activities under the Captain’s leadership, the greatness of which I cannot judge. That is left to the generals, historians, and future generations.
The wind was kind and barely moved at all. No noises came from the camp; all were asleep. Just me and quiet and stillness: lonely pickets against the foe.
Sleep is something that a picket begins to value highly after an hour on such a lonely night duty, but it is a pleasure that he cannot afford. Thinking and remembering have always filled my mind with ideas enough to carry me awake through the night until morning. How nice it would be to return to the comfortable blankets in my tent and rest, but instead, I had to remain standing and pacing in the cold dark, watching and listening. I was tired, but I knew what true fatigue and lack of sleep were. Many times in this war I have been without needed rest, but not until a short time ago did I understand how need of sleep affected the mind.
2
Daytime into nighttime, mile after mile, hour after hour without rest we rode. How long and how far we had traveled I did not know. The desire to sleep was almost overpowering. I had no choice but to stay awake. I knew that my horse would stay in step with the other horses, and I hoped that I could keep the pace of the other men. They had to be like me, half in this world and half in a world of dreams.
We rode as fast as possible to escape from the enemy’s territory. Our raid had not resulted in what we had hoped for, but the dangers involved had not been any less. Riding toward the safety of our lines, we knew that the enemy was following, closing the distance between us. We continued on escaping the danger of their world, returning to the safety of ours, and also slipping into a world of dreams.
Hunger, fatigue, and fear interrupted my wandering and dreaming mind. Several times in the dark, I swayed in my saddle, nearly falling off of my mount. My body was ready for sleep, my mind intent on escape. My mind prevailed, and I rode on. Ten hours, twenty hours, or more had passed. Daylight had come and grown and now lessened into twilight. The countryside seemed a repeated blur as seen through my tired eyes that were sometimes open and sometimes closed.
Suddenly, I became aware of the fact that my horse had stopped. The Captain had halted the column and was allowing a rest. I heard my name being called by the tired but demanding voice of Sergeant Smith. He ordered me to collect canteens and fill them in a stream near the rear of the horses. We had passed over the stream before stopping, but I had no memory of it. Scout Jack had found a clear pool a short distance upstream.
Jack was uniquely skilled for his scouting duties. When sent into the woods in search of food, water, herbs, or information, he never returned without the desired goods. Instinctively he knew how to make his way about in unfamiliar forests. I was in awe of how he could walk noiselessly through leaves and fallen twigs on the forest floor. Several times I had tried to imitate his style of soundless movement, and always loudly failed.
One morning, during breakfast conservations, Jack claimed that, in his youth, he had stealthily approached a wild buck in the woods, leaped upon its back, grabbed its antlers for balance, and rode for some distance before being thrown off the frightened animal. Several men nodded their heads in acceptance of his boastful story, but I told him that there was too much brag and too little fact in his tale. Scout Jack grinned and said that he would make me a believer. That same night, I was assigned an evening picket duty. After the first hour I was still very alert, awake, and secure of my safety. Darkness and quietness enveloped me in such a sense that the beating of a moth’s wing would have invaded our privacy. Suddenly, someone’s fingers tap me on the left shoulder. I heard Scout Jack’s voice say, “Tag, you’re it.” Before I could spin around to face him, he had silently disappeared. I never doubted him after that night.
During the break to refresh ourselves, Scout Jack had again returned successfully from his task.